One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London
by BlueIsSoul
Summary: A disinterested, paranoid girl. A wealthy journalist with only one thing on his mind. Too much alcohol. A serial killer on the loose. Here's the problem with a one-night stand in locked-down London.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Twilight. **

**M for sexual situations and language.**

**NuttyGinger is doing a fabulous beta job with this. She is a grammar queen, keeping my version control issues under check and stopping my characters from sprouting shiz that makes no sense. I have a tendency to keep changing things, so any grammar issues are mine and mine only.**

**Planetblue is my pre-reader. This talented lady really has an eye for detail, her comments make me giggle and her advice is awesome! She's the creator of the one and only Manchu, so there is some emailing of 'tache pics too of course.**

**AUTHORS NOTE:**

**I didn't plan this to be my next story, I just got a bit side-tracked, so this is the outcome.**

**This story is inspired by an article posted on facebook: 'The Problem With One-Night Stands in Locked-Down Boston'. It'd be a really good idea to read it (see my profile). **

**I have taken a couple of creative liberties. **

**1. This will be set in London, not Boston. 2. This will NOT be based on the after-math of the Boston bombings. I didn't feel that I could do something like that justice at this point and this is, well, my attempt at something fun.*head-desk***

**This story will be smutty (take that as a warning!) and a tad crazy, so don't take it too seriously. It's short – 6-8 chapters at the most. **

**This is in no way meant to disrespect or down-play the tragic events in Boston. **

**I'll shut up now. **

xxxx

**One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London**

**Chapter One**

I won't claim to be the master of one-night stand etiquette, or anything. My former 'brothario' reputation still precedes me, but I've become more refined since those good old days at boarding school.

Or refined some rules, at least.

Because when these 'situations' do occur, there is no straying from the rules.

The commandments.

The no-enter-zone.

The-whatever-shit-will-keep-her-from-pulling-a-bun ny-boiler-on-your-cushy-bachelor-ass.

**Number One:** You shall do your utmost best to make a soundless, confrontation-free dash for the exit before she wakes up from last night's endeavours; bad sex, or the most overwhelming, orgasm-packed, trip-you-the-fuck-out ride, pull your pants on and just leave, capisce?

Trust me on this, it's _that_ important.

**Number Two**: Fuck her in one night as many times as you want, but it shall not extend beyond two nights, max. Hey, a guy's got to acquiesce sometimes, especially when she's _that_ eager to give it up all over again. Doing her a third time … it's gonna get _messy_.

**Number Three:** This is the most important of them all, because you don't even want to _start_ this shit: You shall make sure that she is relatively sane before you take old one eye to the optometrist.

Pretty simple.

_Right_?

But I have a confession.

Rule three may have been callously disregarded somewhere between numerous pints of Guinness and a much too fond relationship with the tequila shots.

...

Fuck.

* * *

"Bella."

Yes, that's her name.

She's looking at me, breathing, entranced.

The only thing I see are the dark-golden flecks around her pupils, highlighted from the hazy glow of the lamp on her cluttered bed-side table. Her eyes are dazed and misty from the alcohol, but the colours are vivid, bright.

I'm shirtless, leaning into her body and she's spread out below me on the bed, wearing only cotton panties. Stunning.

Our skin is hot. Static shocks of heat zinging from her chest to mine.

The world is spin, spinning and my hands are … cold.

"Bella …"

Her fanned dark-chocolate hair is a beautiful contrast to the crumpled white duvet, and I want to feel her.

I want to fuck her. _Yes_.

My mouth drops to her neck, her chest.

I suck the soft of her tits and she punctuates the air with her noises. Her nipples are pebble-hard and now sloppy wet from my mouth, and I'm mumbling into her skin.

"Bella. Bella? Bella!"

"_What_?!" she snaps, her hands tugging at tufts of my hair, not too thrilled at my interruption.

I open my mouth but not before she catches me off-guard by growling. Literally. An annoyed "_Grrr_!" escaping her bruised lips.

I snort.

I shouldn't be surprised. Not after everything _else_ I've heard from her angry, pouty mouth tonight.

And tonight has been full of surprises.

One night in a pub that's too out of my way, then a run-in with a girl with who sent my flee-for-the-hills radar into the red zone.

Yet here I am, in her bed, sacred 'man-laws' about to go _kaput_.

I'm fucked.

Or about to be.

She bites my cheek impatiently. "What do you want, posh-boy?"

I wave the tub of Ben and Jerry's she gave me earlier in her face. My fingers are ice-chilled from being wrapped around it for too long.

"This. I'm still holding _this_."

Of course I am…

Ice-cream— it's her fantasy or some shit, and _fuck_, why did I _drink _so much?

She shivers and whimpers when I press the coldness of the tub against her belly. Tiny beads of condensation, trail down the sides, on to her stomach. "Where do you want it, baby?"

"Do you … uh … say that to everyone you f-fuck?"

I chuckle giddily to myself; I don't think we're talking about the ice-cream anymore.

"Do you always talk about other, err, conquests when you're shagging someone?

"It's ice-cream. I'm naked," she snarks breathlessly. "Obviously good schooling doesn't teach you everything."

I throw her a crooked, intoxicated smirk, my eyes travelling down her sexy-as-hell curves.

_No sweetheart, it doesn't._

I'm still trying to figure out the absurd chain of decisions that led me here. In the cluttered room of this angry-drunk, paranoid, too perceptive, and very likely insane, girl.

Hell.

Logic be damned– I'm _smashed_ – I don't know _what_ I'm thinking.

She arches, pressing her damp breasts against my shoulder and breathes in my ear. "Surprise me, toff-y."

"Don't call me a toff." I tell her tits.

"Toff-_fuhhh-ckkk__,"_ she hisses when I tilt the tub and finger out a dollop of ice-cream on to her left nipple. There you go.

It melts and spreads liquid gold over her pale skin.

I watch, spellbound.

She gasps. "Oh shit, so cold, so, so _cold_."

Feel my pain, sweetheart.

I grin, she cries, so I wrap my mouth around her breast, tasting and licking every last bit vanilla flavoured sweetness right off of it. I'm not a huge ice-cream fan, but suddenly the appeal has rocketed to the heavens.

Never did I think it could taste like this…

Vanilla ice-cream for the win.

Bella moans, wrapping her legs tighter around my waist. I brush my hard dick in my jeans against her centre, once, twice, trying to relieve some of the ache. It doesn't help. We've been experimenting with some weird kind of verbal-foreplay-thing all evening, I need _more than this._

"Oh… God, _yes_. Yes!" she wails with abandon as I drop more ice-cream onto her. She really is into this shit. Kinky like … yeah.

She's warm, cold and so, so soft.

I'm licking her skin clean with my tongue, following the trail from between her breasts, to her belly button. I move further down, loving the way she wriggles against me, almost resisting – but wanting more.

She wants more.

She's begging shamelessly, pulling at my hair. When my knees touch the cream carpet, her legs slide slightly off the edge of the bed, either side of my head.

"I wasn't asking because I didn't _know_ what to do with ice-cream." I peer up at her.

"No shit," she huffs all red and bothered from my ministrations. "I love you eating it off me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says huskily.

I play with her underwear and look up from her sticky stomach.

"I want…" She breathes in and out, squirming like a fish out of water.

I smirk.

"Tell me." I slip her underwear off her legs, taking in the stunning, too wet, sight before me. Beautiful. "Tell me what you want me to do with the ice-cream, Bella."

She kind of clenches her thighs at my teasing, and my dick throbs in agony.

"I want you to eat … um, eat it, eat me, eat it from my puss_—oh__ G__od!"_

She cries loudly as I drive my mouth into her. She's pulling and kicking, and somewhere behind me, something topples from the bed-side table, smashing into a million pieces on the floor.

I don't care, and she doesn't care.

Because she tastes vivid, glorious. The only thing that matters is my lips on her writhing body and the ice-cream in my freezing hand, which I spread all over her drenched centre.

Then I press my tongue against her again, probing, tickling. A shrill shriek permeates the air, her legs slam tight around my head, and vanilla and Bella is _every-fucking-where_.

I can get used to this.

I've done things – a lot of naughty, sexy things, but this has to be – wow.

Maybe it's the ice-cream.

Maybe it's the drink.

Maybe it's her.

I thrust my tongue into her pulsating nub and she howls from somewhere up there.

_Yes_. She likes that.

So I do it again.

And again.

Then again because I'm _that_ good.

"Oh shit- I'm gonna – _I'm__g__o__nna_… oh!"

Suddenly she jerks and clenches too hard. Ow.

I struggle; she's going to fucking suffocate me.

_Can'tbreath__e._

I put my hands on her legs and pull them apart before I'm completely delirious from lack of oxygen.

I move back up her body, she's shuddering and trembling all over, cursing and quoting weird, convoluted sentences that can only come out of her silly mouth.

It's a strange type of aphrodisiac.

"You like that?" I grin dazedly down at her, proud of myself. I should get awards for this shit.

She nods mutely, still shaky, and hell, I haven't even _started_ with her yet.

Hey, here's a thought.

Maybe it's all just me.

* * *

**Earlier that evening**

"You have to be _kidding _me!"

Her face is aghast as she screws her irritated golden-flecked eyes at my friend Emmett and her friend Rosalie, who are leaning into one another on the other side of the pub.

They both flirt outrageously next to the jukebox as Mick Jagger sings about sympathy for the devil – Emmett's hand is now firmly attached to Rosalie's ass.

My boy is in guaranteed a happy-step to heaven. His game is straight in at bulls-eye tonight – gotta give it to the jerk.

My eyes flick back to the fidget beside me.

_This_ girl is not happy.

Her name is Ellie. Or Belinda, maybe.

"What's the problem?" I ask, curious at the source of her intense irritation.

Her striking hazel eyes snap toward me, and she climbs up onto her stool, giving me a view of her pale stomach beneath her Betty Boop t-shirt, then starts to shake her leg vigorously.

She's a fidgeter, alright.

Fiddle, squirm, run hand through dishevelled, bedroom hair.

Repeat.

Shit, looking at her is making _me_ all tense. And I never get nervous about anything.

"Rosalie was meant to be my ride home an hour ago," she moans, taking a swig from the bottle of Bud.

Her eyes dart back to her blonde friend, who is definitely more my type, but Emmett had claimed that ass at "hello" and I'm in no mood to get all territorial over pussy. He's currently staring at her tits and sometimes, sluggishly into her eyes.

Bloody lightweight. With all that muscle, you'd never guess it.

"She's not going anywhere soon." Unless it's with Emmett. "I can take you home," I try.

I can take her any which way she likes.

Hey, why the hell not?

I guess she's nice-looking in a '_je m'en fous' _way, and I don't even have the beer goggles on yet. The tongue stud helps. A lot.

"Nice, try buddy." She grunts, giving me side-eye.

My pint pauses half way to my mouth.

Really now?

Not expected - but shit, any form of insolence is a plus in my book. The game is getting too _easy._

I tilt my head toward her and pretend to look hurt. "I was only trying to be polite." Then I drain my Guinness.

She opens her mouth and then closes it, her body relaxing a little.

Vulnerability and disinterest will work every damned time.

Like I said, _easy._

"I'm just a little …" She lowers her voice and leans toward me. "All this shit on the news about _Don the Savage _escaping from maximum security. Nowhere feels safe, you know?"

"I see."

So that's what the buzzed nerves are about?

"How could they let him escape?"

"Well, it's not like they let it happen on purpose," I smirk.

"He's lethal, dangerous, and he's on the run in London! I live a street away from the murder hotspot, you know, where they found his third and fourth victims? He could be anywhere. God, he could be in here, in this very pub, just lurking like some serial killer lurker."

I look at her. Huh? "I doubt that."

"He's been in prison for five months years, he'd _want_ a drink."

"Actually, you're right," I muse. "He escaped maximum security prison, got shot in the leg and has the national security hot on his trail – surely he would want to have a victory drink in his local east-end pub."

"Did anyone tell you you're a condescending asshole?"

I raise an eyebrow, because yeah, I am.

Since we're getting to know each other, I guess it's better to get it out there sooner rather than later.

"No, wait." I conspiratorially lean toward her. "Maybe he's really here to scan the crowd for his next victim. That'd make a real celebration. Rubbing it in the face of the system that couldn't really pin him down before it got too late. Maybe he'll drag her to the street next to yours and –"

Her spine straightens and panic seizes her features. "Don't please. No, _d__on't_. I don't want to hear it!"

"But what if –"

"I'm not listening. La, la, la!" She sticks her fingers in her ear and simultaneously mouths "asshole" at me.

I laugh.

This is ridiculous.

I move around in my stool so, my legs face her. I take a try at _sombre_ even though the look on her face is priceless.

"I'm sure they'll find him soon enough. I write for the _Telegraph_ and had an interview with the lead officer this morning. They know what they're doing."

"_The __Telegraph_!" She narrows her eyes at me. "Of course you do."

More disdainful glaring.

I pause. You'd think I'd told her I was the serial killer side-kick, rooting for his clean escape.

"You've clearly made a distinct opinion of me."

She has no problem enlightening me either.

"I figured a magic circle suit, banker boy or trust-fund-brat looking for an easy lay, but instead you're a conservative journalist whose writing about our modern day Jack the Ripper. Daddy can't be too happy."

I open my mouth and then close it again. More spot on than I'd like to admit.

Suddenly I'm curious about the uncombed, dressed-down-chick.

What is her issue?

Why is she so ragey?

And why is she dragging my father into this?

"Are you always this judgemental?" I ask because she just called me out.

It's been a long time since anyone has called Edward Cullen out, _just like that_.

"This is nothing. I'm worse when I'm on my period."

"Thanks for the detail."

"Anytime."

She's looking at me curiously now.

Her eyes travel from my white Hugo Boss suit-shirt, black skinny tie and jeans – because that's the most formal I'll ever go for a meeting – and further down.

She's clearly checking me out in admiration. It happens often.

"Nice loafers by the way." Then she fucking snorts.

"The girl with holes in her t-shirt is going to teach me about style?"

"You're in East London, _Made-__I__n-Chelsea_. And it's vintage, not that you'd ever heard of it, preppy."

"Ah, is that we're calling it nowadays?"

"Yes. Vin-tage," she says like it's a special word. "Also, _this…" _she points emphatically at herself, "is a girl who took the bus to work, shops at Primark and wears _socks _with her shoes. Ever heard of 'em?"

I chuckle. God she's such a bitch. I love it.

I want to nail her even more now.

In fact, I insist on it.

"And this —" I point to myself and throw her a cocky smirk. "Is what being showered looks like —"

She kicks me. Hard.

"_The fuck –__"_

"You deserved that."

I rub at my shin. "Jesus, lady!"

I'm bruised.

And I'm turned on. Fuck, why am I so turned on?

"Hmph," she says angrily.

Yeah, I'm going to fuck that cross look right off her face.

She taps her fingers on the bar and gets instantly distracted when she spots Rosalie and Emmett in mouth-lock.

"Shit. _Rosalie!_ What? Stop that!" she screams across the pub.

A few innocent dwellers look our way. They probably thought this was going to be an ordinary, quiet night out with the lads … poor sods.

Throwing her hands up in dismay, she slides off her stool with a solemn cock-block look on her face and my bro-code jumps into action. Of course, it does. This is what we do.

I tug at the back of her t-shirt.

She falls back in between my legs, her back hitting my chest and lower back rubbing my dick.

"What are you doing?!" she cries.

"What are _you_ doing?"

She turns around in between my legs. "She doesn't even _know_ him."

"What you've never been kissed on a night out before?" I chuckle. There are four, symmetrical freckles on her nose. "I can change that."

"Shut up. She's –"

"She's what?" I challenge.

"She's my friend, I want her to be safe. It's a crazy time."

"He's _my_ friend, I can vouch for him. He's not a serial killer."

"And _who_ exactly are you?"

I roll my eyes and dangle my arm off the bar. "Someone who wants to buy you another drink."

"Why?" she asks suspiciously, still in between my legs.

I shrug lazily. "I don't know. I guess I like your company."

Liar. Liar pants on fucking fire.

Tell her she has nice tits and a fine ass, and I wouldn't mind sticking my dick in between either.

I don't of course.

I'm much too much of a gentleman.

"Fine." She shoots me a warning look."Just so you know, I don't do one night stands. I won't fuck you tonight, so don't even _try_."

Nodding the bartender over, I shift on my seat so she moves with me.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

xxxxx

* * *

So game on. Cocky Londonward or Crazy Bella?

Slang definitions:

**Toff:** Often used a derogatory term. Normally to describe a member of the wealthy/ upper classes.

**Made in Chelsea:** A popular reality TV show based on residents of the wealthy Chelsea district of London.

**Je m'en fous'**_**:**_loosely translated from French as 'I don't give a fuck'.

**Twitter: Blueissoul**

**There is another author who will be doing her own take on the article. Keep an eye out for a TBA story by LayAtHomeMom.**


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys! I'm so glad that so many of you have now stocked up on ice-cream. It really should be a staple requirement or something!**

**NuttyGinger is my beta, Planetblue is my pre-reader. They are both fabulous.  
**

**One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London**

**Chapter 2**

Bella. Her name is Bella.

On her third beer, _Bella_ tells me what's _really_ bothering her.

"Every time I've walked into my house over the last two days I've been terrified that _Don_ _the_ _Savage_ will be sitting on my couch in his colourful boiler suit –"

She pauses and bites her lip nervously and it occurs to me that I've I been in the company of someone so on edge. I swear if she wasn't sitting next to me right now, she'd be using those bitten fingernails to crawl up the walls. Probably twitching, glaring and being a general cow whilst she was at it.

"Once I even tackled my roommate to the floor because she was sitting hunched up in the dark." She continues on with her story passionately. "Apparently, she was only meditating. I felt terrible. So now I follow this ritual. I walk into the house, I check where my roommate is, then I check all the cupboards and under the bed. Only after all of this, can I start to relax, but even then … _hell_, there he is right now!"

My eyes follow hers to the small, muted TV at the corner of the pub, where blonde, pony-tailed, goateed man with hand-cuffs fills the screen, throwing us all his usual, pleasant 'fuck you' smile. Indeed.

If I could get a fiver for every time he pops up on our TVs, I would be able to pay my father back for all his cash favours … maybe.

We're sat at in darkened booth at the back of the pub. The ambience is quieter, moodier, the closest couple is two tables away, whispering with their heads together. Music from the jukebox croons from near the bar at the front, sounding like muted bass and brass as it reaches us. Her face is shadowed as she talks. It's warmer because she's moved closer to me.

"Tanya Denali, she was pretty much _royalty._ Do you know where they found her insides?"

I assume her question is rhetorical.

The only thing that London has been tormented with over the last year is details of Aro Domenico Volturi, or now better known as _Don the Savage_ – due to his brutal, savage way of raping and killing his female victims. He's sending the police on wild goose-chase and after wild goose-chase. The arse was Thefinally caught, by complete fluke, mind, six months after the death of his first victim and with six high profile murder victims to his name.

He's elusive, smart and completely crazy – he's today's notorious serial killer, escaped from Belmarsh maximum security prison, and now he's on the goddamn run. He's got the prime minister, the entire cabinet, Scotland Yard, shaking their head in bewildered fury. He'll go down in history of course just like the Black Panther, Palmer the Poisoner or Jack the Ripper.

"I just… I just… I can't stop thinking about him."

She drains her Bud and uses her fingers to tap the side of the glass nervously

"You and the entire country."

This pub isn't my normal joint, but I've heard about how over-crowded this shit-hole get; packed with local workers and east-end residents. Today, only few faces have braved it out for a drink and somehow, everything seems that little bit more tense. The nerviness isn't just an east-end thing either, it's been like this all over London.

The streets are dead, the public stay locked in their homes in fear of their safety and people look at passers-bys with fear. It's fucking sad and fascinating at the same time.

"No." She shakes her head, at my observation. "I mean I really, _really_ can't stop thinking about him."

I raise an eyebrow. "Okay…"

"I'm kinda paranoid."

You don't say.

"_What_?" I fake surprise and throw a snort in for emphasis. "No you're not."

Next she'll be stating she has tits and expecting me to act like I didn't notice.

She giggles, suddenly abashed. Now when she does _that_ she looks so much cuter than with the permanent woebegone scowl she has attached to her face.

"Actually, I'm very paranoid, about everything. I'm distrustful about everyone, I have a tendency to double-check things and just be awfully suspicious."

I'm not sure where she's going with this, because it's not like her intensive distrust issues aren't obvious like a flashing neon sign. I just thought she had a thing against me, but apparently it's universal.

"Charlie - my dad - tried to take me to the doctor, because he thought it could be a real issue or something. I don't go though. I mean, I'll be labelled, and that's when things become concrete. It's almost like then I'll really have _something_, you know what I mean?"

"Like a diagnosis?"

"Yeah."

"…of paranoia?"

She nods. "Yeah."

I take a sip from my pint. What do you say to someone who's kind of admitted they choose not to go the doctor because they think they might possibly be crazy?

Nothing.

So I say just that.

Nothing.

"Then I fixate... on things, people," she says conversationally, "men mainly."

Err…

My psycho-chick-homing-device explodes.

_BOOOM!_

There are alarms blaring and shit.

Get set, Edward. _Go._

Run for your life.

I wipe my forehead with my palm. I'm a little sweaty. All of a sudden I think I'm finding it difficult to breathe.

I'm still here though.

Rooted in fright, maybe.

"It's _Don_ _the_ _Savage_," she explains in a manner like she's having everyday chat discussing the weather, as I just stare at her in morose, silent, shock. "He's triggered something in me all over again. He haunts me everywhere, everyday. It's scary."

I take a large gulp from my drink.

Then another.

She looks at me and screws her eyes.

"I just know you're thinking terrible thoughts about me, like 'this girl is loony' and 'I should bolt' and 'what the fuck did they put in her drink' I _know_ you are."

"I am?" I ask, because I obviously am.

"You're just like the rest of them, I know." She pushes her bottle around on the table. "Just so you know, I'm _not_ a psycho."

I'm not sure it's entirely a positive sign that she has to tell me that.

She's pouting angrily, and I mentally toss a coin on whether to flee right now or wait until she takes a bathroom break. Surely, with all that beer she's got to go soon. I've been twice already, she, on the other hand, seems to possess a bladder like a small reservoir.

I should flee now.

I really should. I don't do this type of shit. Leave the crazies well alone, that's what they say.

I'm talking about sacred "commandments" – rules that us boys came to an understanding way back in college, and have never looked back since: You make a confrontation free morning exit, you keep the sex to two time occurrence, and you make sure she is _sane_. These rules simple, they govern our lifeand they work like magic. Any doubts, and we take off.

I look at her and she's still got her aggro-I'll-knife-you-if-you-dare-move look on her face, whilst I wonder whether to dodge to the left, right or just slip underneath the table. But then she bites her lips and kind of looks at the table, a little bit defeated, and before I know it, there's crap coming out of my mouth that I don't intend.

I'm an idiot.

"You want another drink? Hey, why don't you tell me something else about you – what do you do to keep yourself busy?"

_Besides tackle your roommate and check under the bed for serial killers. _

She moves in her seat and runs her fingers through her hair. "Why?"

Does she ever answer anything straight?

I shrug. "Conversation." Isn't that what most people do?

"Conversation, hmm." She analyses my words like I'm unveiling the next big conspiracy. Then pauses, waggling her finger at my face. "Fine. Just don't try and use any of your _tactics_ to get in my good books though. I'm aware of men like you."

I choke on my drink.

This has to be some crazy ass joke, right?

* * *

"You_ cannot_ pick Jason Stratham over Bruce Willis. Na-uh." Her words are slurring and running together, and my cheeks are too-warm . Suddenly, everything is dimmer and somehow smaller at the same time, more focused on her.

"Why the hell not?" I ask placing four tequila shots on the table. "Stratham has swagger."

"Please. Don't even with the _swagger_ – have you seen Live Free or Die Hard? I just want to lick Bruce's round, pale one. He's all clean and shiny and Stratham just isn't."

"Bruce's might be more shiny and round, but Stratham –"

"There's _no _competition." She cuts me off defiantly."I can't believe I'm discussing who has a bald head with a guy with the most head of hair I've ever seen."

"I can't believe I'm discussing this full-stop."

"Oh rah rah, Richie Rich. Did I divert you from your musings about history of art or equestrian sport?"

"No, lets continue with this line of conversation." I push a tequila glass toward her. "Which do you prefer? – Teen Mom or 16 and pregnant?"

"God you're such an obnoxious git."

"Thanks."

"Teen Mom tugs on my heart-string a little bit more. But Beer _and_ tequila? You must really want to sleep with me."

I certainly can't flaw her on her knack for calling me out.

I throw her the type of smile that has made many others fall on their knees in front of me with their mouths agape.

She looks taken aback for a second and then blinks dazedly and I'm sure then that despite her preference for old, bald men, she'll probably tug at my hair and shriek out my name when I fuck her senseless.

She's probably the type that would have no issue telling how she wants it either - I have a soft-spot for dominant women in the bedroom. It's damn hot when I make them finally surrender like they should have all along.

Plus, I'm horny, goddamn.

My last shag was almost two weeks ago; behind a parking lot outside Budda Bar. Jasper's cousin, Gabriela was blonde, snotty and with legs that go on forever. I don't normally go down family of friends route, but … whatever.

That girl was hot for me the moment I stepped into the bar and was adamant that our love for Monaco and golf meant we were somehow soulmates. It'd be rude for me to say no.

Bella's still looking at me sceptically, her accusation hanging in the air.

"You're mistaken," I say, convincingly. "You're … a little too crazy for my taste."

It's the truth. Kind of.

She's becoming less and less crazy the more I drink.

"Or too common?" she says sardonically, and I have to give it to her for not taking the bait.

Any other girl would either be riding my dick or profusely explaining why she wasn't crazy, like, at all and then riding my dick.

This girl is clearly insane.

"Where's Rosalie?" She asks suddenly, her eyes darting around the pub in search for her friend. Hell.

"They left half hour ago." I say, as she pulls out her phone. "Don't do that."

She ignores me of course.

"Leave them alone. Christ!"

If I know my boy, he's already home and going in for second round of hokey.

_Annnd _she's dialling anyway.

So I take another shot, because I need it. The tequila burns my throat and sends heat through my chest as I wait for her to cause more drama.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the tiniest bit intrigued. It's like watching a motorway pile-up in front of your eyes. She's the ragey, drunken trucker that caused it.

"Hi, Rosalie? Why are you so breathless? Oh, okay, right. _Right_. Are you sure about this? I mean he didn't look entirely reliable. I'm not sure about too sure about the tight t-shirt and that Louis Vuitton belt? Just no."

She throws a suspicious look at me, like Emmett wearing Louis Vuitton makes him the devil's spawn. I think I might agree.

"Okay. Fine. I _won't_ harrass, but you've got protection right? You can never trust what he has in his pockets, only god knows how long it's been there. Listen … what? Do you always need to be such a bitch?"

I shake my head and start to chuckle, because I swear I'm on candid camera or some shit. Someones going to jump out with a microphone any moment now.

"Just one last thing. Please just check his pockets for sharp objects. Razors, pen-knives and lighters because men with lighters, they – Hello?" she pauses and looks at her dead phone.

"She hung up on me," she says in amazement. "She fucking hung up on me. I was just telling her that men with lighters, they –"

"— smoke?"

She looks at me and clamps her mouth shut, and my mouth curves upward, just because this is ludicrous and mad, and because I can't help myself.

Her mouth opens in protest and I let out a full bellied laugh.

Paranoia-girl roll her eyes and glares at me.

"Shut up. Seriously."

* * *

"So you're not going to tell me your biggest fantasy."

"No," she slurs over her rum and coke. Her eyes are glazed, making the sunflower yellow dots around her pupils stand-out.

I'm nursing my own whiskey and I can feel the hit.

Who's stupid idea was it to mix drinks?

Stupid, idiot idea. Whoever it was.

"Come on, give me something here." I grin lazily. "What do you think I'm going to do, publish it in my next article?"

"Screw you," she begins with the scrunched-up eye nonsense she does and then stops. "Will you?"

"Like The _Telegraph_ readers will want to read about the biggest fantasy of Bella from the pub, beside Mervyn King's piece on fucking inflation targeting." I roll my eyes.

"Edward Cullen fantasises about fucking heels and crotchless panties. How vanilla is that?" She's tries, imploring for a reaction.

"I'm not vanilla, honey." I say grimly. Little does she know…

"You're a bloody conservative, boring-vanilla, yacht-owning, pretty rich boy. Admit it."

"Aw, shucks, you think I'm pretty?"

"Please."

"I was playing safe for your ears." I was.

She raises her eyebrows in challenge and I straighten in my chair, squaring my shoulders.

"These ears don't need safe. Lay it on me."

"You sure you can handle it?" I mock.

"I'm paranoid, not a pussy."

My alcohol induced, male brain goes off on a tangent because yeah … _pussy_.

I smile secretly to myself like I did when I was fourteen and some girl said it to her cat. Heh.

She raises her eyebrow and I shake myself out of nostalgic stupor.

"Okay, fine. Just so you know, I'm not a perve or anything."

"Tell me," she commands, like it's her privileged right to know these things.

"It's something I've always thought was real hot you know, kinda like–"

"_Come on _Edward_, _fucking enlighten me before I fall into a coma. Stop with the pathetic, pussiness._"_

I catch a hint of a smile before it turns into her usual someone-just-killed-my-cat expression.

She's teasing now.

"I like a girl with a potty mouth. Keep it coming angel."

"Dick."

"What about it?" I'm so witty.

"Threesome," I say finally, when it looks like she's about to combust from my lack of response to her obstinate nosiness.

She tilts her head to the side and the tendons on her neck shift, shadows and light, criss-crossing the creamy pale of her skin.

I want to bite into that softness and feel her skin on my tongue. I wonder if that will turn her on. She'll probably moan in ecstasy and ask for more. Then more. It's me, who wouldn't?

"What did I say about boring and vanill-a-ah-ah," she taunts.

"Well, not a threesome. Not technically, at least. More. "

"_More?"_

She moves forward in one movement, but the placement for her elbow is sloppy, and she misses the edge of the table. I automatically reach to grab her elbow, but she swats me away before adjusting herself.

"So what, having an orgy is your fantasy?" There's mirth in her drunken eyes.

"Not exactly ..."

"Well then, what?" Her voice is lower, she's curious, engrossed.

Her stare is wide-eyed and unwavering from my face. You'd think I was about to reveal the secret of the elixir of life.

"Look, forget it."

"No, _no_. you can't do that!"

"What are we drinking next?" I shift in my seat, and her hand flies out and lands on my forearm, halting me from moving.

The contact is sudden, the skin of her palm is burning hot, scorching. It's the first time she's touched me. I feel it all the way to my dick.

Well, _hello_. He's certainly alive and raring to go, alright. You were missed, hot-thing. _Now patience old boy –_

"_Edward!" _

I shake myself out the pep talk and gaze into her unsteady eyes.

"Okay. Um, so let's say there are a lot of people who are _there_, but they don't necessarily have to you know, participate."

I watch her reaction, amused. Her eyes are now large saucers. "What do you mean?" It's a whisper.

"Being watched when having sex. " My voice is gritty. "Rough , hard sex. There's something illicit, something sexy about it. It turns me on."

"Oh."

A blush blooms at her neck and then moves up her face, the transition unfolding like a painting of a blood sea in front of my eyes. I want to touch her skin, feel if it's as heated as much as it colours.

She nonchalantly tugs at strand of hair. "Like, um, voyeuristic shit?"

"I guess." I answer nonchalantly.

"With a lot of people?"

"Yes. With a lot of women."

"You can't start getting fussy now." She smiles and then tries to hide it by biting her lip.

"Hey, it's my fantasy," I tease.

"You want to put on a performance." It's a statement.

"I wouldn't exactly call myself an artiste, but sure."

"You're a fool." She leans closer to me.

"Fool that makes you curious."

"You do not."

"Really?" My face is almost touching hers.

She's obviously lying.

I make her goddamn curious like she's never been curious before. I make her eager to know more about me.

I make her want to lean forward and look into my eyes because it gives her the best damned feeling she's had in a while.

I make her want to throw her knickers off, just because.

It's called the 'Edward Cullen Effect'.

She swallows and fiddles with the black straw in her drink, not answering my question and not looking at me anymore either – Nat King Cole's _Unforgettable_ cloaks the room, makes her seem mistier than she is.

I watch her tongue dart out and touch the corner of her lips.

When she speaks next, I can barely hear her.

"So would they watch … from a live camera?"

She places her pouty lips over the straw and sucks, still not looking at me. I watch her conduct with the plastic in her mouth in rapture. I could gawk all day. _Why is that so fucking hot?_

"Could be, or you know, maybe a peep-hole…"

She twirls the straw around, her head tilted to the side.

She gulps. I watch the movement of her neck.

"Or… even … people in the room?"

"Yeah." I say and her eyes flick to me without warning.

_Holy shit._

It's like someone's punched me in the chest. The wind is all gone, I take a lungful of breath.

Her yellow-freckles dance in her eyes and I imagine how they'll screw up when I do those dirty, breathtaking things to her. Maybe others will watch, maybe they won't, but all the same the performance will be out-of-this-world.

Like she's reading all my wicked thoughts, her face brightens even more and her breathing gets heavy, deep.

In that moment, it's the only thing I can hear.

The world is a little faster and so is the pounding in my heart.

"And, when you say … don't participate … would these girls be, um …" She swallows "touching themselves?" she says softly, gasping a little.

I nod slowly, breathing. "Yes."

She lets out a gentle moan and I squeeze my thighs together, willing Him to calm down. Until further notice at least.

We're close.

Her eyes following , fondling mine and my cheeks are too-fucking-hot.

It would take only a mere beat for me to close the space between us. Place my lips against the soft of hers and breathe her in. Will she taste spicy, or sweet like rum?

"I see."

Suddenly, with no warning, she sits back against the leather of the booth.

I lean slowly back against my seat too.

My heart thumping in my throat. So close.

So fucking close.

She takes the straw out of her drink jabs it at me with each word.

"Edward? You. Are. A. Perve."

XXXXX

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	3. Chapter 3

**One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London**

**Chapter 3**

There's something about her.

She's different from any of the girls I know.

She's more suspicious than an intelligence agent on enemy soil. Add that to truths like she's painstakingly cagey about personal questions, doesn't understand the meaning of discretion and clearly has a few missing screws.

Maybe it's the drink talking but I'm … intrigued.

I want to know more.

I want to peel away all the layers, because she gives me nothing, and yet I've given her too much because it's so easy. Too damned easy.

Hell, it's irritating.

She takes a drag from her cigarette as she faces me in the parking lot outside the back exit of the pub. The sky is a clear grey, the setting sun spraying it with a concoction of muted orange and burnt red; a masterful, breathtaking backdrop to the cars behind her.

"So you're telling me that your father tried to blackmail you into a career as a mindless corporate clone. You told him to go eat shit, while you went on to become someone that then writes about corporate clones?"

I raise an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it."

I place one foot against the wall behind me, and take a long, hard drag from my own cigarette. Heaven.

The fresh air has cleared up some of the fogginess in my head as I exhale upward, creating tiny, wispy, clouds in the dusky evening.

When I look back at her she's staring at my neck, seemingly intrigued by my adams apple.

"Business interests me," I tell her, rubbing at the back of my neck. "The rat race doesn't. I've seen how my father lives. He spends all his days trying to outdo my grandparent's legacy. They tried to outdo their fathers, and so on. I don't want that. Surely, there's more to life than _that_. "

"You don't want to lay in a bed of money?"

"I would be fibbing if I said it hadn't made my life easier... but its not everything."

"Money isn't everything." She taps her cigarette and kind of sways on the spot and I know she's way more tipsy than me. I'm impressed that her tight, tiny body is holding it together, even if barely. "I may actually be starting to like you even though you're probably just trying to get in my pants."

I smirk.

"Is it working?"

"I'm wet."

"Good."

"Seriously horny."

"That makes two of us."

She sways some more. It's cute, like she's beginning to dance to the tune of her of her favourite band, but hasn't quite picked up the rhythm just yet.

"I mean, like, you're a dick, obviously."

"I'm charmed."

"Yet it's like you have a beating, working, although likely shrivelled _heart_ somewhere that right-wing chest of yours."

"You jump to a lot of conclusions about me. The money, it's not mine—"

"Don't even start with _that_ bull-shit." She rolls her eyes dramatically.

There she goes again.

Somebody put the girl on _The Big Debate_. The other panellists wouldn't get a word in edgewise.

"I've hit another nerve, obviously," I say grimly. "You are quite presumptuous aren't you?"

She moves a step closer and her face is highlighted in stark white from head-lights of a car making its way out of the parking lot.

"I have a couple of questions for you."

"Oh, joy."

"Who paid for your gap year, what is your inheritance package and let's talk about how you really landed a job at _The Telegraph_."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Since when did this become the fucking Spanish inquisition?

"I'm talking about Daddy dearest. He's set up all of that for you. He might not have been bubbling with happiness with the career route his only son chose, but he still set you up with this job simply because _he can_."

Her eyes are flaring, her vehemence is a little … staggering, and she _really_ has a thing against my father. "So didn't even start _the money isn't mine_ and I'm_ just one of the people, crap,_" she huffs.

She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth again, but I cut her off before she goes off on another zealous tangent about my so-called _privileges_ and does my nut in.

"I might not know everything about how the other half lives, but I don't fucking claim to either. And actually, if you must know, no, they didn't know who my father was and I would do this for free. You know why? I like writing about shit that actually _matters_."

She pauses.

"Really?"

"Really," I say too vehemently and it's the truth, I did this by myself and hell, I'm _proud, e_ven if she was fucking right about the other stuff. Yes, the asshole in me can be passionate about other matters besides wondering how flexible she can get with open legs.

I do wonder though.

She looks like she could throw a few twists around.

"I believe you."

I blink in shock.

"You're not going to try and prove me wrong, call me out, or get paranoid about me wanting to take you behind from behind in car park?"

"No." She stubs her cigarette into the rust coloured wall beside me. "You could have become all Gordon Gekko and caused an economic melt-down, yet despite the demands of your pushy and obviously evil father, you didn't go there." She tilts her head to the side, like the angle actually makes her see a different side to me. "You're no Samaritan, but I've got to give you some credit for that. There, a compliment."

I tilt my head against the brick wall so I'm looking down at her. "Compliments don't suit you."

"I'll make up for it." Her mouth turns upward when her eyes meet mine.

Her lashes are long, shadowing against her cheeks and hell, she's cute when she smiles.

I tell her to smile more.

She crosses her arms and frowns angrily.

I chuckle at her. "What do _you_ love? besides calling people out for shit."

"Do you really care?"

"Call it middle-class manners."

Her arms tighten around her chest and she says too seriously, "If there weren't CCTV here, I would strangle you."

"I could tell you were into kink that moment we met."

"You're disgusting."

"Tell me." I want to know.

"Piss off." She's adamant.

"You're very secretive," I probe.

She looks at me too long. I stub my cigarette out with my foot and turn my body to face hers, still leaning against the wall.

She sighs, relenting. She's obviously really drunk. Or maybe she's come to her senses, understanding that no girl, ever, remains resistant to me.

"There's this one thing, but don't laugh."

"I wont," I promise. Good thing I have a fantastic poker face.

"You're the only person I've told this to apart from, well, my Dad and a couple of close friends. So…"

"Come on, Bella, tell me before I drop off into a _coma_," I tease her with her earlier words.

"Shut up." She rolls her eyes, a smile tugging on her lips. "I well, kind of, sort of, collect a lot of quote memorabilia."

"What?"

I was right. I want to laugh ... because … _what?_

Her hobbies are about as 'out there' as she is.

"Those 'Keep Calm' mugs? I have lots about thirty in my cupboard. Thirty two to be precise. Then there's other quote memorabilia, like the key chains, fridge magnets, mantle piece designs and bed spreads; I have it all. It's in my room, in my wardrobe, everywhere."

I screw my eyebrows together – having a sudden image of her jumping out from beneath a disarray of "Keep Calm and Carry On" knick-knacks and winking at the audience as if on a TV advert. The irony the "Keep Calm" part, hits me and I'm barely holding on to the snide chuckle bubbling inside me.

Keep it together, man.

Poker face remaining world-class. Yep.

She's looking down at her fingers, and I watch her in curiosity. A hum of anticipation goes through my body at what she's going to say next.

"Sometimes it makes me feel, I don't know, not so paranoid." She looks up at me.

"I see," I say.

I don't want to laugh anymore because I think I get it.

There's a reason behind the madness.

Who knew?

She chews the corner of her mouth and to think; if I hadn't interviewed the chief of police about our famous serial killer, _Don _the _Savage_, at the station across the street – I would never have made a detour to this pub and met this girl who is adamantly denying everything that would seem like normal behaviour to me.

Like being wowed by my obvious charm for example.

She's definitely _different_, alright. A world away from all those chicks who dress up their chiuauas, and think buying a Prada bag from every country in the world makes it a collectors item. They have their legs open at my grin, and then have a tendency to snatch for my dick the moment they realise my lineage.

The latter will come though, there's no doubt about that.

Then she proves how different she really is by saying: "Then when I get paranoid, it sometimes helps to think of my favourite sayings and poems."

I simply watch as she looks up at the darkening sky, and starts to bombard me with wisdom she's learnt to keep herself calm.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes… "

I want to yell '_What in the shit-cake?' _but somehow refrain.

She continues, almost oblivious to my dumbfounded presence.

"Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it."She giggles giddily to herself. "Good one, ain't it? Oh and my favourite; Love yourself, always, even when the world seems like it doesn't…"

She takes a deep breath trailing off. "Have you ever been love?"

Where did _that_ come from? I definitely can't call her out for being too predictable.

"You mean in love with something else besides the bed of cash I lay on?" I smirk.

"Or that ego that is bound to cause the next total eclipse."

"And that."

"So?"

I shrug. " I don't think so."

"Do you believe in it? Love I mean."

I look down at her unfocused eyes and stroke a wisp of hair away from her cheek. She doesn't even flinch.

"I can't be sure. So many do, so maybe there is something to it. I'm not waiting around for it to happen though. "

I shove my hands into the pocket of my jeans. "It all sounds like _way_ too much effort and headache."

I'm an easy come and go kind of guy. _Easy go_ in every sense. Being pussy-whipped sounds like too much hassle, and why would any idiot even decide to do that to himself?

No thank you.

"Maybe when it happens, its not." I'm mesmerised at the dancing colours in her eyes. "Like all those people that tell you they fell, maybe they don't feel like it's any effort, any headache, at all. Maybe that's why it's love."

"Perhaps."

There's silence, and we both just take each other in without words. It's almost completely dark and the street-lamp behind her flickers on, a burning yellow. She's the first one to break the spell.

"You know what? It's not like someone like you would ever get it," she sneers."In love - you'd have to _give_ a little."

I laugh quietly. "Shit, _give_ a little, who'd be that stupid?"

She shakes her head and swiftly turns, walking toward the exit door, back to the pub.

_Hey._

I push myself off the wall with my shoulder.

"Have you?" I yell at her retreating form.

She stills, but then keeps walking, placing her hand on the door, pushing it open.

The music vibrates though the gap, thrums through her fingers and whisks and disappears into the outside breeze. She half turns back,throwing me a mischievous smile that makes the world even dizzier.

"Come on now, I can't tell you _all_ my secrets."

* * *

She sways in and out of my line of vision. There's heat, touching, singing. Warmth from much more drink starts at my fingertips and cocoons my chest. I'm buzzing - I'm not sure if it's me or her or the music.

She sits next to me, surrounded by bottles and shot glasses, my phone is in her hand, I think she's programming her number. Or maybe she's looking through my picture messages.

_Holy sh—_

I snatch it back from her. I don't want her to pass-out just yet.

* * *

Her head is bowed, her messy hair sticking to her face, as she bops too enthusiastically and sings "I don't think you're ready for this jelly" in my ear.

I screw my eyes at her. I don't concur.

* * *

"Hey, Bella." I grin too widely and she giggles too much, loud, euphoric. Her breasts brushing my shoulder as she bounces in her chair.

I flick her cute chin. "Bella, Bella, Bella."

She giggles again, because I'm seriously funny. I have to be the funniest guy to ever be sat in a pub with a girl, ever.

Her nose touches my cheek.

I move my face, so the soft of my lips are on her cheek.

She moves back, away from me.

I laugh. "You're a cock-tease."

_I'm so drunk._

So we throw drunken-shit questions at one another.

"Would you rather be too hot or too cold?"

"Would you rather kill a puppy or a middle aged fat bloke?"

"Would you rather be rich and ugly or poor and good looking?"

I snort.

"I wont ever have that problem."

"You, my friend, are a royal jerk," she sings happily and then abruptly, bites my earlobe.

* * *

"Do you ever think of other women when you're fucking?"

"Not really."

"You're a_ liaaar_. _Aaall_ the men do," she slurs fervently, like she's the worlds foremost expert on the subject.

"You want the truth?" I lower my voice like it's some big secret.

"Enlighten me."

She's more intrigued than she's letting on.

"I've had every woman that I've ever wanted so I don't need to pretend. Besides I don't get bored enough to think of others, if you catch my drift."

"You're a pig."

"Don't throw daggers at achievement, sweetheart."

She rolls her eyes dramatically and I grin, because her ire is the hottest thing to exist.

"Would you rather pay or get paid for sex?"

I place my empty shot glass back on the table. "You really have a one track mind, don'tcha?" She's dirtier than me, I knew it all along.

Since when is she the one that get's to ask _all_ the questions anyway? I have questions too; so many.

"I've never had to pay and as for being paid, no. It cheapens this whole thing."

"It cheapens a one- night stand?" She asks incredulously, her eyes are widening.

"I like to keep it authentic."

"Once again, you're talking utter shit."

"I live to serve," I say dryly.

"Okay my turn," I say as she licks salt from the side of her hand and drains the shot glass without even blinking an eye. Fuck _hot_.

He eyes lift to mine and she's close so I ask her what I've been dying to ask her all evening.

"Would you rather swallow or... spit when you go down on me?"

There.

She smiles. Wide and naughty. Not shrinking away, or throwing me a livid stare. Smiling.

"This is all about you, now?"

My hard-on yells _'get itttt'_. She didn't say she _wouldn't_. Hell yes.

Strike one, Edward Cullen.

"Who else would it be about?" I return with a goofy smile.

"You're so fricking self-absorbed." I'm watching her fingers. They crawl forward to my hand like a tentative tarantula, but she doesn't touch me.

"You're blushing." Her cheeks are on fucking fire.

"Well, you're saying ridiculous things you ... you _perve_."

I chuckle. Only _she_ can make that word so damned sexy.

"Do you like it?"

It's a bold question, and I knowwhat her answer is going to be before she answers.

"I, uh…yeah… " Her eyes move to my lips and she mumbles something else incomprehensible.

Her nose is inches from mine. My thumb touches the skin between her thumb and her index finger and she shivers at the contact, completely lost in my gaze.

"You're so … pretty." She says, breaking the silence. "I mean like really … you know, just, _pretty_."

"Another compliment?" She really _wants_ me.

She's breathing too fast and so am I.

"I mean your eyes, they're so…" she leans forward some more and I can feel her breath on my lips, her knees touching mine. "So green."

I lick my lips and stare at her stained red pout. I want to taste her so fucking bad.

"Green…" I repeat dumbly.

"Mhmm…" The spongy flesh of her thumb touches my knuckle.

"Do you want…" I swallow. " …to go somewhere?" My head is clouded.

I shift in my seat. She blinks drunkenly and bites her chilli-red lips. I stare.

_Come on, Bella …._

I'm her plaything, willing her to unleash me from my rapture.

"You're not being fair…" she pouts.

"No?"

"You have to, … um, give me an alternative … right?"

Right.

That's how we play this game. Right?

She drags all her fingers across my knuckles, a gentle graze that shocks my world out of spin.

"Okay." I stare at the freckles on her nose. "Would you rather take me home…" her hypnotised expression doesn't change. "or… do I to take you home?"

I gave her a choice, didn't I?

"Huh?" She blinks, unseeing.

Her head is tilted so she's in the perfect position to kiss me. My lips are almost touching hers, and my heart thrums too fast in my throat. The noise is the loudest I've heard, too fucking much.

"_Letmetakeyouhome,"_ I say all blurred together.

She makes a small noise, and I'm not sure if it's me or her that moves forward first.

Our lips touch, the tingling starts where her mouth meets mine and captures my ears as I breathe her in, in complete stillness. Neither of us moving, like we might lose this moment.

She's pillowy soft, softer than anyone…_everyone_.

Her breath is like gentle like dandelions on skin, caressing my lips, sending life into my lungs.

That's when I feel it, the vibration down there. I press forward, pushing my lips harder into hers.

Her phone vibrates again. My mind clears because for once it's not my damn dick causing the turbulence.

Shit.

She curses under her breath and moves back leaving me bare, and pulling out her phone from the pocket of her jeans.

I groan out loud, sending hushed, solemn curses to the _cockblocking little shite_ who chose this moment to text her.

She looks at the screen and smile slowly spreads across her silly, inebriated face. She giggles drunkenly , sliding off her stool. "You're good." She gestures between us. "I have to give it to you. You _are _fucking good … but I gotta go."

_WHAAAT!_

"Where are you going?" I'm not even bothering to keep the complete and utter mortification out of my tone. Esme says that if I was born a girl I'd be a diva, I normally disagree, but I can feel my brat-face make an appearance because _no_, she can't go. No. No. No.

She waves her phone in the air. "It's my roommate."

"Your roommate," I repeat. I hate her bloody roommate.

"Yeah, she's in the car park. _She_ gets the privilege of taking me home tonight."

If I was a girl, I'd be marching out to the car park and throwing diva-bitch moves at her roommate. Because _no_.

"See ya, Mister Moolah!" She grins widely and I stare flabbergasted at her back, as stumbles out of the pub without another glance at me.

I shove my shot glass in a tantrum, not caring about the others that turn to look at me as it goes hurtling across the table.

_What the fuck!_

* * *

_So what did ya'll think of Edwards diva-fit?_

**Don't forget to read the Esquire article that this fic is based on (link on my profile). LayatHomeMom's new fic 'Hooked Up and Locked Down' based on the same article is now up too! Its hilarious, fun and you'll instantly love Bostonward. Don't forget to check it out!**

******NuttyGinger is my beta and PlanetBlue both do a fantastic job of keeping me on track!  
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	4. Chapter 4

**You still with me? Apologies for the delay in posting this one. It's longer than usual so I hope that somewhat makes up for it!**

**Thank you to my lovely girls for looking at this. Nutty Ginger, Mariahajile and PlanetBlue. All amazing!**

**One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London**

**Chapter 4**

Three cigarettes later, I sit at the bar, nursing a bruised ego and a confused half-erection. He can't seem to understand what's happened and neither can I. There's only so many times you can tell yourself "insanity does not border genius" before you feel like you're trying to convince yourself of something you shouldn't have to.

My phone pings, and I look down at the name that's popped up on the screen.

I smirk. So she did me the honour of sneakily programming her number. Cute.

**InYourDreams: What you doing?**

I down my Guinness and place the empty glass on the table with a clang.

I don't bother responding. She's a lost cause after all. Right?

Exactly three minutes later, my idle fingers punch in:

**Edward: Nursing a hard-on.**

My phone pings instantenously.

**InYourDreams: I'm drinking Pinot Noir and devouring ice cream while thinking about your hard-on. **

**Edward: Good for you.**

I roll my eyes. _Cock tease. _

Then I resort to pouting petulantly at my drink.

I was so damn close to sealing the deal and then she had to go and run. The after-taste of rejection is fucking bitter. In fact it tastes like shit. It's been a long time since I've been here and I don't like it one bit.

_Why me?!_

Life is so unfair.

**InYourDreams: Don't be all bolshie.**

I ignore her message, because fuck, I _am_ bolshie and stroppy and a complete idiot, because that slutty redhead across the bar has been giving me a come hither look for the last five minutes. Our eyes tangle for a second longer than needed, and she's got the kind of mouth that could do things I've only dreamt about.

I tug at my hair and look down at my drink. Not in the mood.

Shit, what's wrong with me?

Ping.

**InYourDreams: I'm so drunk.**

I groan, willing myself to resist texting back. She's teasing, she knows it, and it's driving me fucking insane.

More than it should.

I tap my feet and my eyes travel to the TV screen, where Don the Savage smirks back at me. The reporter talks about the prime minister announcing extreme measures likely to result in a London lock-down.

My phone pings again.

**InYourDreams: Why so stroppy, rich boy? **

**Edward: You left.**

I stare at the screen, and she doesn't respond.

Then minutes later: **InYourDreams: I hear we're in lock-down. East can't get to West. What you gunna do?**

**Edward: Dunno. My father has tabs on the nearest helipad, I'm sure**

**InYourDreams: Seriously?**

I sigh.

I have no idea what im going to do.

I'm too fucking smashed to care.

The red head flips her hair and bends so I can see down her top. She'd probably take me home…

I contemplate the thought for exactly half a second.

…Nah.

**InYourDreams: Come over.**

I straighten in my seat, a sudden shock of adrenaline ripping through my body.

I can't text back fast enough.

If text messages had a voice, I'd be screaming. I go easy on the exclamations, though. I have a reputation to uphold and all.

**Edward: Really? **

I take a deep breath.

Don't screw with me, crazy girl…

**InYourDreams: I'm not horrid enough to let you to ball up all alone on the cold serial-killer streets of East London. You're too pretty and too posh – you'd be beaten to a pulp.**

**Edward:** **You have such a big heart.**

**InYourDreams: My kind heart also wants you to come and do all those dirty things you've been thinking about all evening.**

My reply is immediate**. **

**Edward:** **I HOPE THIS IS NOT A JOKE.**

_Holy fuck._

_Yes. Yes. Yes!_

I've not been this ecstatic since, well since the day I got my first blow-job. There is so much nostalgia attached to that one epic moment in time, forever written in history and now this… this is… this beats it, it beats everything.

My mind is screaming, "_hallelujah!"_

I have the urge to jump on the stool and scream like I did when England scored their first goal against Germany in the World Cup, and then point in the face of the barman who gave me a pity-filled look and yell "Edward Cullens still got it, muthafucka".

**InYourDreams: No joke. Horny B wants your pretentious dick. P.S. I live at the top of a very steep hill.**

**Edward:** **Now's not the time to be cryptic. Address, Horny B. P.S. Be ready.**

**InYourDreams: The party's already started without you…**

**Edward:** **Tease.**

She texts me her address, I grab my jacket, slam money on the bar, and run through the pub like I'm being chased by a pack of hyenas.

Suddenly there are too many people and too many obstructions as I swerve and dodge through the crowd and the banter.

"Excuse me. Excuse me," I exhale, perturbed at their lack of consideration. Don't they know?

Don't they know that Edward needs to see Bella like he's on the most important mission of his fucking life?

I smash into someone as I dash through the back exit. He saves his drink in the nick of time. I yell, "Sorry" without looking at him, ignoring his foul-mouthed curses. I can't care – I'm flying.

I can't care about my haze-filled state of mind as I try to unsuccessfully flag one of the 'out of service' black cabs down, then another and another. I'm determined and resolute and damned impatient to get to this girl like some lunatic looking for a lunatic. Bloody hell, I _am_ a lunatic looking for a lunatic.

The taxi drivers ignore me, eager to get home to their warm homes and families, out of the streets swarming with police, a rogue serial-killer on the loose and right now, a drunken fool eager to get his midnight rendezvous.

Fuck it.

I step into the middle of the road and the next reluctant arsehole screeches to a halt in front of me.

A bald, too chubby man sticks his head out of the window of his cab. "What the fuck, geezer!"

I race to his window. "I need a lift."

"Sorry. I'm not working." He says shutting me off and revving his engine. "Find someone else."

"Do this one job," I slam the bonnet as his car inches forward "It's urgent. _Really urgent_." I urge him with my eyes like we're having some man to man moment, willing him to get it. Surely every man must know about this moment, _that_ one time.

My looks of pleading only works to rile him up further. "What in the bloody 'ell! I can't do it mate. It's dangerous out here tonight. I want to get back to my wife."

"I'll pay you… whatever you want." I stick my fingers in my jacket and pulls out three fifty pound notes from my breast pocket, roll them up, and like some fucking mafia gangster, slyly push into his hand with a satisfactory smile on my lips, and the theme song from the Godfather playing in my head.

He hesitates.

For fucks sake!

I hazardously throw another note at him. It floats through his car and falls onto the floor of the cab and hey presto, he's sold.

"Get in," he says seriously and starts to drive as I get in the back and slam the door behind me.

"I need to get there fast."

"Buckle your seat-belt Marty Mcfly, you're about to get the ride of your life!" He grins toothily at me from the rear view and I shake my head. Seriously?

The swaying canal boats on the hushed docklands are a blur of moving colours; the blinking lights of the magnificent skyscrapers in canary wharf morphing to tiny pinpoints of bright white behind me, as we race through deserted tunnels and empty roads; past the vintage designers of spitalfields and the angry graffiti art of Bricklane with too many questions scrambling my mind.

Is this some strange crazy-girl joke? Will someone this paranoid actually let me screw her? What really constitutes as "insane" nowadays?

"Why have you stopped?" I grill the cabbie as we come to a halt fifteen minutes after we started.

"Road block." He motions to the yellow sign in front of him. "I can't go any further."

I curse and then jump out of the cab and fist bump his bonnet in thanks.

I'm stood in a darkened, deserted fork in the road, with one blinking traffic light in front of me. I scramble for my phone to search for Bella's address. I slide my finger over the screen, the screensaver jumps into action and the idiot phone DIES ON ME!

You have to be shitting me.

I look up at the starry night sky and groan out loud because somewhere up there The Big Man is pointing and having a right old laugh.

Ten minutes I'm jogging too-steep hill, huffing and hyperventilating, scanning the long line of dreary houses to my right, which are barely lit by a few washed-out street lamps.

152 or 154 or 156?

Fuck.

My mind is spinning. Her house is nowhere to be found, and the street is deadly quiet and creeping with shadows. If I was more sober, I'd be calling my father for some backup support, because I'm clearly in mugger paradise.

Somewhere far away, a cat meows.

I unclip the Patek Philippe from my wrist and drop it into the pocket of my jeans, because I still want an intact wrist at the end of this.

"Bella?" I say unsurely, like she might actually be that shadow-thing in that bush.

Then I do the only I can think of doing as a lost man, in a sleepy, abandoned street at 1am in the morning. I take a lungful of air and then at the top of my lungs I yell, "BELLLLLAAAAA!"

Nothing.

Doomed silence.

Is there any damned life on this street?

I puff out my chest. "BELLLAAAAA!"

Taking another lungful of crisp, midnight air and spraying out my arms, like she might somehow hear me if I put my whole body and soul into it.

"BELLLAA—"

A click. Some creaking and red door opens in front of me. A middle-aged plump lady wih a cigarette in her mouth looms at the entrance. She's got the frizziest, mousey blonde hair I've ever seen and is wearing a stained bright orange bathrobe and only one slipper.

I notice only one thing: she's not Bella.

She wordlessly looks me up and down in her one slippered glory.

"I'm looking for Bella," I say finally, because I'm starting to feel a little bit like an ornament on display.

"Who?" she says with the cigarette still in her mouth and one hand on the red wood door.

"Bella."

"Bella who?"

"Bella... surname undisclosed."

I chuckle because I've spent almost six hours with a girl who is not my type, paranoid beyond all reason, and then chased her like a mad man across London on a promise of mind-blowing sex she's started without me. I'm ready to knock on every single door in this shoddy street until I find her; yet I don't even know her surname.

I know nothing about her.

"Yer gunna hafta give me more that," One Slipper says.

I stumble forward so I'm standing in the overgrown shrubbery and slabs of rotting brick that is her front garden. "She's uhh… she's around 5'3", messy brown hair, she has these amazing striking, yellow-flecked eyes and a sour faced expression." I pause. "She's pretty darn paranoid."

"Why are yer looking for her for?"

"I met her today and I …"

I want her.

I want to fuck her like I've never wanted to fuck anyone.

I want to throw her against the wall and touch every single silly, crazy, soft part of her until she's panting for more.

I want to watch her eyes in shadow of her bedroom when I'm inside her, I can't wait to see if the sunlight yellow in her eyes will dance as magnificently as they did when she almost-kissed me.

How does one explain such a dilemma to the lady with one slipper?

"Oh, I get it, darlin'" she waves me off before I form a coherent response. "You're here for some hanky panky."

I shrug in a bashful manner.

Pretty much, my friend.

"Braving the locked-down, serial stalker streets all for her? She must be something real special, this one."

"I... well, I've never done _this_ before," I admit.

I've never, ever followed a girl home before in my life.

I've never _had_ to follow a girl before. There's a first for everything, right?

"You're not too bad yourself, either, I must say."

"Why, thank you." I flash her my best smile.

One Slipper blinks rapidly and then takes the wet cigarette out of her mouth.

"You wanta come in?"

She holds the door open, and I all I can see is a teeny tiny shadowy hallway and then complete black darkness. "I have two unopened bottles of JD." She waggles her untamed eyebrows at me.

Er…

I clear my throat and take a step back. "That sounds ... like much fun, but I don't—"

"Over here, moneybags!"

My head snaps to the left.

The head hanging out of the top floor window next door is the uncouth interruptee herself: Bella.

I grin, wide and even wider.

_There she is._

"Hey you," I slur in a happy voice and turn to One Slipper. "Duty calls."

"Sure." She shrugs and nods upward. "Hey there sweet B."

"Hey Jess!" Bella waves pleasantly at her neighbour and glares at me. "About time!"

She disappears from the window, and one-slippered Jess looks at me invitingly. "Just so you know, the offer is always open, handsome. You know where I live."

"I'll keep that in mind." I pleasantly smile and retreat as fast as my legs can take me.

"It's Swan," she says as I clamber over the half-built wall, which is doing a rubbish job of separating the two gardens.

"What?"

"Her surname is Swan."

She smiles at me, and I nod at her. Even though it's only a surname, it's like we've shared an important secret. "Thanks Jess."

The dark blue front door swings open before I can reach it. I stumble into the stinging glow of too much light, and there she stands before me in all her golden-eyed glory. Bella.

Our eyes connect and something unfamiliar tingles from my toes to my fingertips.

He bare legs are tanned and shapely, and she's wearing a Micky Mouse t-shirt. Maybe it's some type of vintage ironic statement, but I don't care because I itch to grab the hem, lift it over her head, and throw it away.

She swings a bottle of Pinoit Noir in my face. "I see you met Jess."

"Yep. She's a delight."

She leans into me to shut the door closed. I take a step back to give her room but not fast enough. Her breasts touch my arm, and her nose brushes my jaw, and an aftershock of volcanic heat erupts through my every sense.

"Like you wouldn't believe." She smiles, looking too hard and too long into my eyes. "What took you so long anyway?"

"I, um, got a little lost."

My journey is already fading into a mish-mash of blur. The important thing was the destination, and now I'm here.

Finally.

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she takes a step back, another, and turns.

I follow her almost unconsciously, like she's tugging on an invisible thread that has me attached by the navel.

She sways through the cluttered corridor, and we pass shelves of worn books, some rather interesting art decor and hanging wall displays sprouting feigned wisdom. Then we're in small but homely open-plan kitchen. The living room is a dark contrast to the bright tube lighting in the kitchen.

"You got lost, huh?" she asks whilst tiptoeing on bare feet, pulling out two 'Keep Calm and Drink Tea' mugs from the light blue, wooden cabinet, pouring wine to them.

I shrug out of my jacket and leave my black tie hanging on the kitchen chair, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt.

I laugh lightly, watching her ass from behind. "I had to bribe the cabbie. My phone died. I'm pretty sure I was almost mugged too."

"You're so wasted," she giggles, turning. "You went through a lot of effort to come here."

I tut in indifference. I don't care. "All in a days work."

The only thing on my dumbstruck mind was her.

She bites her lip and hands me a mug. "Well. Don't be putting your feet up just yet."

"I wasn't planning on it." I clink my mug with hers, and I'm moving in front of her so I'm close. My legs are on either side of her, and she's prisoned against the counter. She doesn't seem to mind, though.

I can feel the warmth of her thighs seep through my jeans.

"Good..." Her words hang heavy in the air as takes a sip from her mug, her eyes never leaving mine as she swallows the red liquid.

I watch hypnotised.

She reaches out.

I smirk as her fingers tentatively, gently crawl down the side of my crisp, white shirt. She loosely hooks her finger into the third belt loop of my jeans.

I lick my lips. "Why are we still drinking?"

"Oh, it's a problem now?" she challenges.

"Not really." I raise an eyebrow. "Though I could think of a few other interesting things we could be doing."

She takes a sharp intake of breath, and I know the effect I have on her is more than she lets on.

She tilts her head to the side. "We'll, um, be doing _interesting_ things all right." She smiles lazily at me and uses my belt loop to pull me closer to her entrapped body. "I need to calm the nerves first. You know how it is."

"Ah, yes." Of course.

I'm so close to her that I can simply lean forward and press my arousal into her belly.

She takes another sip. Despite what she's said, she doesn't look nervous at all.

I don't drink anymore. I'm completely absorbed by her. Every single breath she takes, every single, minute move she makes – I'm entranced.

How can my mind be so fuzzy yet so alert, so focused on this messy-haired girl at the same time?

"At least you're here now," she says too softly. She blinks once, twice, and it's in slow motion.

"You asked me to come," I say slowly, breathlessly. "What changed?"

Hey body shifts as she places her unfinished wine on the counter with a gentle clink. Her lips are stained berry red.

"That's the thing. Nothing."

Then she kisses me.

There's no softness or gentleness this time. She's goes straight for the kill. Her soft lips are harsh. Her hands tug at tufts of my hair, and my own mouth wrestles with hers as we struggle against each other. An inferno of desire overtakes my whole body and I shove the mug in my hand against the marble top behind her, pushing her harder against the counter, fighting the urge to shove her back, open her legs, and just bury myself into her.

"Oh, God," she moans against my lips, and a razor-sharp buzz sparks through my spine.

This.

This is what I've been waiting for all fucking night. This is the reason I'm lost in London. _This._

She's hauling me closer, and I'm bending too far down to kiss her pouty mouth, so I grab her legs, my hands running over her undies as I pick her up easily and slam her on the counter.

She gasps at the coolness, the sudden movement, my hands on her – I'm not sure which – and she's kissing me again.

She tastes like wine and sweetness. Vanilla.

Too fucking good.

"Take this off," she commands, tugging at the starchy, upturned collar of my shirt.

"Easy tiger," I smirk into her mouth.

She lets out a frustrated sound, halfway between a sigh and growl. Ignoring me, she fiddles frantically with the buttons of my shirt as our tongues continue their hurried dance.

There's rhythm and breathing and teeth and haste.

My shirt is open. She runs her cold fingers down my chest, and I hiss out a noise that doesn't sound like me.

"Your turn," I pant. I'm surprised when she raises her arms so obediently. I pull at the hem of her t-shirt, and in one quick swoop, Mickey Mouse is on the floor.

She's sitting in front of me in a white lacy bra and knickers like some blasé sex nymph who does not give a fuck. It's amazing.

Hell, _she's_ amazing and so damn natural and straining too hard against her bra...

I want to see her.

She makes a grab for me, and in one simple move, my fingers run over her smooth back, touch cold metal, and she's unhooked and bare.

She blinks in surprise at the garment hanging from my adept fingers, down at her naked chest, and then grins appreciatively. "Talent."

"What can I say?"

She isn't the biggest I've seen, but when I cup her tit, she fits perfectly into my palm like she's made for me. Beautiful.

I run my thumb over her pink, peaky nipple, and she arches into my touch. "Ahhh..."

I use my thumb and forefinger to squeeze and pull her aroused flesh. She wraps her legs around me too damn tight, and my mouth covers her mouth, her nose, her neck, lower...

I press my tongue against her peak, tasting and biting and licking.

She's making all these amazing frustrating noises and moans and –

There's coldness on my cheek.

I pause my frenzied movements at the freezing intrusion.

"For you." She shoves a tub of vanilla Ben & Jerry's into my fingers. Her face is blooming red, and she's gasping hard.

What the fuck?

"Um, thanks?"

"Remember you asked about my fantasy?"

I nod, breathing coarsely.

"Well this is it," she says roughly, squirming as my hands hold her naked waist. "Ice cream; you can do wonderful, wonderful things with it."

Jesusshit. What?

I straighten.

"This is your fantasy?" I ask, because I'd only enquired out of curiosity, and I certainly didn't think I would be playing it out tonight, but damn, we're progressing fast. I like it.

"It's vanilla, too. You'll love it." She pushes two shaky fingers into the tub of melting ice cream and scoops; placing a thick dollop on my lower lip.

My tongue flicks out and licks it simultaneously off my lip and her finger, and I shrug nonchalantly.

"I don't eat ice cream."

"You don't?" she pouts, crestfallen.

"No, but – " I tilt my head so the two fingers she has resting on my lips are in now my mouth and she gasps out a breathless noise. I suck and there's a loud 'pop' as I let her go. "I'm willing to make an exception when it's on you."

"How very generous of you." She bites and then unwillingly smiles.

I return her smile like a favour, and she shrieks loudly as I pick her up with the ice cream still in my hand. Like a drunken fool about to have the party of his life, I'm twirling her around and around and around the kitchen.

She kicks over a chair, grabs the opened bottle of Pinot Noir and whispers "hush" at me because her roommate is sleeping, even though it might be a little too late for that, and she's the one that's making all the noise. Silly girl.

She giggles as she directs me upstairs into her messy bedroom, a hazy light coming from a small, bedside lamp engulfing us. I clamber over clothes and shoes, falling onto the bed with her pliant body underneath me.

I look into her eyes, and all I can see is vibrant, incredible colour.

She says something that makes my dick ache even more for her.

"Brace yourself, Hot-Shot, time for things to get _really_ interesting."

Hell yes.

* * *

xxxx

**Next one – we finally get to the hot sexin', brace yourselves! ;)  
**

**Definitions:**

**Bolshie: (of a person or attitude) deliberately uncooperative**

**Stroppy: Easily annoyed; ill-tempered or belligerent.**


End file.
